


reflections and reverberations

by fypical



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 01:33:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6932473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fypical/pseuds/fypical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam gets so far in his head that he doesn’t notice Bucky coming back to the world ‘til he hears the rustle of sheets, a low groan. Sam’s fingers twitch, like they want to reach out, but he doesn’t really know where he stands. (Post-CACW; Sam visits Bucky as he recovers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	reflections and reverberations

**Author's Note:**

> I just keep rewriting this mid-credits scene to make it something where Sam and Bucky are tender with one another. Thanks for all the great Bucky/Sam inspiration, CA:CW! Title from Victor Hugo.

 

 _The abundance of light was inexpressibly comforting. Life, sap, warmth, odour, overflowed; you felt beneath creation the enormity of its source; in all these breezes saturated with love, in this coming and going of reflections and reverberations, in this prodigious expenditure of rays, in this indefinite outlay of fluid gold, you felt the prodigality of the inexhaustible; and behind this splendour, as behind a curtain of flame, you caught a glimpse of God, the millionaire of stars._  

  **Victor Hugo, _Les Misérables_.**

 

* * *

 

 

Sam beelines right past all the security, all the rest of the team, right past Steve too; barely acknowledges T’Challa, who he never addressed properly first nor last, still doesn’t quite trust. It’s nice that he realized his mistake, is working to fix it, but Sam doesn’t throw himself into trust quite as much as Steve does. Or maybe Steve was just desperate; Sam hadn’t noticed the bruises until they’d all gotten to the Quinjet, ‘til everyone was settled away and Clint had an arm around Wanda (he hasn’t let her go). But they’re there, under his eyes, one peeking out from under his collar, and if he looks this rough now, Sam can only imagine what went down.

He has bigger regrets – Riley, _Rhodes_ – but telling Stark where Steve and Barnes went is up there, now, has supplanted a couple of the more mundane ones. Maybe that’s what being a superhero is: bigger regrets when the dust settles. 

They try to corral him to his own medical bay, point out that his injuries haven’t quite healed, and Sam’s not stupid, feels the bruise at the centre of his chest every time he moves the wrong way (every time he moves at all), but he’s not the one in the worst shape. That dubious honour is reserved for Barnes – Bucky, and Sam hasn’t called him that but he didn’t miss how insistent he was, trapped in that cage and at Zemo’s mercy – who isn’t even goddamn _conscious_ when Sam pushes his way into the room. His heart’s in his throat and it makes him dizzy, worry heavy and stifling. Steve’s been so hellbent on protecting Bucky that he hasn’t really thought about what that entails, Sam thinks, and it’s not bad, not Steve’s fault that Bucky’s his own brand of tunnel vision. 

Bucky looks like hell – like he’s been there and back and brought it with him, not even peaceful even when he’s out, like the frown on his face is permanent, locked in there by the bruises that mottle his skin. Sam feels ill; Bucky’s arm is _gone_ , and he tries not to think what caused that, how it happened. There’s a bruise, dark and ugly, along the line of his jaw. Sam’s hand shakes when he passes it desperately over his face, praying that when he opens his eyes again he’ll see something different.

He doesn’t.

So Sam sits himself down on the chair next to the bed – surprised that Steve’s not there already, appeared somehow by determination, dedication to guarding Bucky – and settles in. It’s unsettling; too similar to sitting by Steve’s bedside with Steve looking about the same, pale and unmoving and beat to hell. Except Tony Stark wasn’t brainwashed, hadn’t had his own name taken from him, and Sam doesn’t know the details except that something sent him over the edge so it’s probably unfair to think it, but— 

Resentment lingers deeper than he means it to. Sam doesn’t like to hold grudges; they don’t do a hell of a lot of good, to him, and he knows himself well enough to try and avoid it, but it’s hard, when he’s here, on the run. When Barton and Lang might never see their kids again just because the Secretary of State has a grudge of his own.

(Sam doesn’t even know if the Accords got ratified. If they got arrested on legal grounds at all.)

He gets himself so goddamn worked up about something he can’t change anymore, something he knew was a risk when he signed on but Steve Rogers is real hard to refuse, when he’s looking like his world is ending and he’s trying to hold it all together. 

( _Even when I had nothing I had Bucky_ , Sam remembers him saying, and it only hit him then just how fucked up Captain America truly was. Is.)

So far in his head that he doesn’t notice Bucky coming back to the world ‘til he hears the rustle of sheets, a low groan. Sam’s fingers twitch, like they want to reach out, but he doesn’t really know where he stands. If Bucky knows he’s the one who sent Stark.

“Hey, sweetheart,” is what he gets, and Sam can’t help but look up sharpish at that, surprised, and Bucky looks like he’s still half asleep but there’s a tiny little ghost of a smile on his face, interrupted only when he yawns, huge, covered a little too late. His jaw cracks; Sam winces, sympathetic, as Bucky drags his hand up, rubs wonderingly at it, and flinches as he knocks against the bruise there. 

“God,” says Sam, leans over so far he comes out of the seat, presses his lips to the corner of Bucky’s mouth, impulsive and desperate and the culmination of all the tension that’s been between them the whole time, the half-frightening thing that kept him snappish like if he held Bucky at an arm’s length he wouldn’t do something stupid.

But they’ve all reached peak stupid now, so what’s one more thing?

Bucky yanks him close, fists his fingers in Sam’s shirt like he’s afraid to let go, afraid Sam might disappear. Sam’s okay with that, doesn’t really blame him, pulls back just enough to knock his forehead real gentle against Bucky’s. Bucky shifts beneath him, hisses, lets go just long enough to slide his fingers up the side of Sam’s neck and now’s _not_ the time, but a shiver crawls up Sam’s spine anyway.

“Shove over,” he murmurs, and Bucky fixes him with the flattest look Sam thinks he can manage; Sam can’t stifle the laugh, low and maybe a little hysterical, that bubbles up. Bucky does, though, lets go of Sam and pushes over, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. And Sam isn’t about to apologize for being skeptical, of Steve’s motives and of how safe they were all going to be, but he thinks he gets it, because Bucky’s goddamn heartbreaking like this. Sam swears, quietly, brushes his fingers over Bucky’s temple. There’s enough space on the tiny hospital bed now, just barely, for the two of them, and Sam clambers in, doesn’t care if his shoes get the sheets dirty. Bucky looks shocked, wide-eyed; like a kid, younger than Sam’s ever seen him look. He slides his hand over Bucky’s belly, leaves it there, tentative. Sam’s not sure what he’s doing, here, but Bucky takes a breath, leans over and kisses him, full on the mouth. It’s nothing other than chaste, closed-lipped, and it lasts almost no time at all, and then Bucky’s blinking up at him sleepily, his smile a little bigger, a little more genuine. Sam realizes with a jolt that he’s maybe sedated, or maybe just hasn’t slept since Bucharest, and Bucky drags his hand up, rests it on Sam’s arm.

“Stick around ‘til I wake up again?” and Sam’s half-tempted to refuse, keep up the petty rivalry for tradition’s sake, because it’s easy and comfortable and _this_ is not, but he can’t bring himself to fall into his comfort zone again. He’s already so far out of it that he might as well stay there, see where it goes.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, okay.”

Bucky’s smile goes bright for a moment, his fingers go tight against Sam’s arm, and Sam watches him drift off once more. And this time—

This time he looks at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr: http://mycenaae.tumblr.com !


End file.
